That Bahar also had a tiny birthmark on her cheek did not help matters. I remember running after the thanedars’ wagon, screaming, “It’s not a star!” before one of them hit me in the chest with a spell that knocked me unconscious.
My insides feel raw, like skin singed with hot oil. I am about to turn away from the girls when I see it again. The fireflies flickering. A crack of darkness within the light.
I see the girl’s dusty brown feet first: bare of anklets and shoes, skimming the packed earth with such lightness that she barely leaves a footprint. Unlike the bright silks of the other revelers, she’s dressed in black, her plain choli leaving most of her back bare and her arms covered to the elbows. If there’s a hint of color, it comes from the tiny blue mirrors embedded in the depths of her ghagra, making the wide skirt glimmer like a starry sky.
Her thin dupatta veils most of her face, but even I know what she’s up to when her hand lightly brushes the back of a man’s tunic belt, when she walks away with a polite apology, a furrow etching her brow.
A pickpocket who didn’t hit her mark. Unlike Bahar, this was a real thief, trying to steal gold and silver coins for the tiny bits of magic embedded in them. The magic in the coins itself isn’t very powerful. The palace’s stable master, Govind, calls the magic in money dead magic, limited in the things it can do. “It is true that non-magi can access bits and pieces of the magic embedded in coins; they can even produce a few sparks if they try,” he told me once. “But for this sort of magic to have any consequence, a treasure trove of coins would be needed. You’d also need a talented alchemist to distill the magic from the coins and stabilize it. For magic to be truly powerful, it must be alive, must be part of the person manipulating it.”
Yet I also know that, regardless of the truth, those who have no magic of their own would risk anything—including imprisonment or death—to get their hands on some.
It’s perhaps this thought—or maybe some other instinct entirely—that draws me away from the spot where I’m supposed to wait for Latif. I weave through the bodies pouring down the narrow lanes of the bazaar and duck under the jutting beam of a sweets stall, following the girl dressed like the night. Like a shadow.
Except she isn’t a shadow, and the next person she targets—a young merchant with sharp eyes—catches hold of her wrist.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice cuts through the surrounding chatter like a cudgel, draws the attention of a nearby thanedar. “Thief!”
The girl’s dupatta slides down her head, revealing frizzy hair as black as surma, a cleft on a stubborn chin, and gold eyes as hard as the firestones from Ambar’s jewel mines. She gives the merchant a sudden, dazzling smile and tosses her long braid behind one shoulder.
“I apologize,” she says. “I thought you were my mate.”
In Ambar, a person’s looks are often enhanced with glow: shimmery creams, oils, and powders ranging from the pure gold dusting the cheeks of the royal family to the cheap sugar oil used by the poor. A glowing face is an indicator of being blessed by the gods, whether magic flows in your veins or not, and can be traced back to the figures in ancient paintings found in caves in the mountains of Prithvi. Two kings and two queens, four rulers of a then-united Svapnalok who were said to have descended from the gods and goddesses themselves.
My father doesn’t believe in these theories about outward appearances. “Inner radiance is more important,” he always says. And there must be some truth to this, because even without a trace of artificial shimmer, the girl’s brown skin is luminous. It reminds me of another face—one that can still wake me in the middle of the night, her screams ringing in my ears.
“Oh really?” A grain of lust slides into the merchant’s angry voice. I’ve heard that tone before. Seen similar leers on other magi men. It doesn’t matter that the girl failed to steal from the merchant. He will not let her go without a price. “Or did you just want a kiss from me on this two-moon night? Where is this so-called mate of yours?”
“Here.”
I don’t realize I’ve spoken until the merchant’s neck snaps in my direction, along with those of several others. I clear my throat, noting the merchant’s furious look as the girl wrests her hand from his grip. “I’m right here.”
It’s probably a good thing that everyone is now staring at me, because I’m the only one who sees the girl’s eyes widening for a fraction of a moment before her features smooth into a mask again. She smiles at me.
“Where were you?” The tone is lighthearted. Flirtatious. The sort that makes heat creep up my ears even though I know it’s false. A show put on for an unwanted audience.
“By the bangle stall.” I force a trace of impatience in my voice. With the thanedar waiting nearby, I even manage to sound convincing. “Don’t you remember?”
Taking advantage of the confusion our little scene is causing, the girl steps out of the merchant’s reach and makes her way toward me. There’s an expression in her eyes that could range from anything between anger and fear.
“I forgot,” she whispers. “Will you forgive me?”
I open my mouth to say yes and lead her away.
She rises on her feet and leans in, cutting off the word with her
